In death we find life.
It’s there, in that darkness, that we find meaning.
Is it so strange that I have found meaning? Is it so strange that long for my child’s smile? Is it so strange that I measure things with my wife’s ruler?
I died once, but only for a month. A toy for machines who pushed and pulled at my lungs. No children’s smile and no sweet whisper from my wife.
Meaning can be found in lost things.
Love. Only love. Is there more? Father? What lives beyond love?